The Forest of Thieves and the Magic Garden: An Anthology of Medieval Jain Stories (Penguin Classics)

by Phyllis Granoff

  ‘“Surely the moon, shamed by the auspicious beauty of her face, has plunged a dagger into its own breast. That would explain the dark spot that we see on its surface. Her face, like the moon as it rises, causes an ocean of beauty to swell. As the ocean carries within it the nectar of immortality, from her face come words, as sweet and vivifying as that nectar. Her eyes are like fish, swimming in the ocean of her loveliness, while her lips are like pieces of coral and her teeth are like pearls. Her breasts are like turtles and her arms are like reeds. She is the epitome of woman’s seductive beauty; she is like the capital city of King Love, where youthfulness is the leading citizen and charm is the ornamental pond.

  ‘“O, she is so very beautiful, beautiful beyond compare! She has some inexpressible allure that draws me to her! And how clever she is! O! How utterly, totally ravishing she is!”

  ‘With these thoughts occupying his mind, the prince finally reached his palace.

  ‘When the king’s son had disappeared from her sight, the merchant’s daughter was afflicted by pain in her every limb, struck by the arrows of the God of Love, the God who carries an odd number of arrows; her hot sighs misted over the paintings on the walls of her bed chamber. She threw herself onto her bed.

  ‘Thinking only of that son of the king, as one might meditate again and again upon a sacred formula, that young girl, with eyes like a doe, remained there in her bed for a long time.

  ‘She took no pleasure in lying down nor in the company of her mother or her other relatives; nothing pleased her, not the moon, not her jewels.

  ‘Everything was topsy turvy; the moon burned her like the fierce sun, and sandalwood was as hot as fire; night was like day, passing without sleep. Everything turned into its opposite, for it is said:

  The cooling substances that please lovers when they are together burn their bodies when they are apart from each other.

  ‘One day as the prince was trying to figure out a way to be with that woman, who had stolen his heart, so that he might quench the terrible fire of longing for her, which now consumed his body, the sun with its fierce rays climbed to the peak of the Western Mountain, ready to set. As darkness spread over the world, the prince was afflicted by the arrows of the God of Love, the God whose arrows are flowers. He came to this conclusion, “There is no happiness in this world without suffering.” And he got up. Prince Tosala wrapped his lower garment tightly around him; at his waist he tied a dagger that was black like the leaves of a lotus and as fierce as the tongue of Yama, God of Death, and in his right hand he took his jewel of a sword that had destroyed hosts of enemy heroes; he slung another sword over his shoulder. He then put on a dark blue cloak. When he reached her mansion he employed his magic skill to climb up to her window. From there he could see that woman, who had eyes like a doe; she was lying on her bed, her face turned away from the window, her body revealed clearly in the bright light of a standing lamp. The prince put his swords on the floor and stealthily crept to her side. He covered her lovely eyes with his hands. She felt waves of joy ripple through her body and thought to herself, “My whole body shivers with joy at the touch of these slender hands, which are soft as new lotus leaves. I am sure it is he, the thief who has stolen my heart.” She said, “Treasure house of charm, let go of me.” The prince laughed and uncovered her eyes. She then proceeded to welcome him as one welcomes an honored guest who has come to one’s home.

  ‘“The prince sat down on the seat she brought for him. He told her, I want to make love with you.” She answered, “I can see that, but, my lord, women of good families must preserve their chastity at all costs.” When he heard these words the prince said, “If all you care about is your chastity, well then, I guess I had better go.” With that he picked up his swords and quickly got up to leave. She grabbed the corner of his garment and said, “Where do you think you are going, young man, having stolen my heart like some common thief? I’ll tie you fast in my arms, as if binding you with strong ropes.” When the prince heard those words, he stayed. She said, “O Prince! First listen to what I am going to say and then decide what you wish to do.

  ‘“There is a merchant named Nandana living right here in Kośalā. His wife’s name is Ratnarekhā. I am their beloved daughter named Suvarnadevā. My parents gave me in marriage to Haridatta, the son of Visnudatta. He married me and then boarded a ship bound for Śrī Lankā to do some business there. More than twelve years have passed since he left here. No one knows if he is alive or dead. All this time I myself have safely navigated the vast deep ocean of youthfulness, which is difficult to cross with its whirlpools of desire and its predatory fish and sea turtles that are the objects of the sense organs. Because it is difficult to conquer the objects of the senses and because the sense organs are indeed hard to control, I did once entertain this thought, ‘The only happiness to be had in this life, which is filled with the suffering of sickness, old age and death, comes from being with a person you love. That has been taken from me. My life is now as useless as the nipple that hangs from a goat’s neck, or as a jasmine flower that blooms in the wilderness, or as a sentence whispered into the ears of a deaf man.’ This was what I had been thinking and for a long time I was determined to kill myself. I had gone to the window to bid farewell to the world of the living, when I saw you. And as soon as I saw you I was bound fast by the snares of passion. You touched your chest and raised one finger. I knew at once that you were giving me some kind of sign. I realized that by touching your heart you were telling me, ‘You are my heart’s desire.’ By raising one finger you were saying, ‘Make love with me, just once.’ I in turn made my hand into the shape of your sword, as if to say, “When you come to conquer me with your sword then I will be yours, and not otherwise!” From that time on, O Prince, I have lived in the hope of being together with you, but afraid lest anyone should know. When I had made up my mind to die, you came to me. From that moment on I lost all knowledge of anything else; gone is the respect I once had for my elders; you have stolen from me the precious jewel that was my ability to tell right from wrong. Being with you I have forgotten all of the religious teachings I once knew. But if I do sleep with you, then my family will scorn me, saying I am unchaste, and there will be a great scandal. If we are prepared to endure the consequences, that’s fine, but if not, it is better for me to die.”

  ‘“As the young woman with sparkling teeth said these words, the prince embraced her ever more tightly, as the moon hugs the Lady Night, and he gave her the pleasure that is the natural reward of youth. The next morning, out of love for her, he gave her his signet ring to help her get through the loneliness of their impending separation. As ruddy dawn adorned a corner of the sky, the prince quickly vanished from her mansion, using the same magical means by which he had let himself in. Eight months passed, during which he visited her in this way every night. Because of the workings of fate and her own karma, she became pregnant.

  ‘Her father, the merchant Nanda, heard about her pregnancy from his wife Ratnarekhā, who had learned what was happening from her daughter’s friends. Angry, he went to King Kośala and told him everything. The king said, “Go home. I will find him.” The king’s minister, following the king’s orders, looked everywhere and finally found Prince Tosala. He informed the king. His lips trembling with the might of his fury, the king ordered, “Minister! I will not forgive anyone who commits a crime, even if he is my son. Seize him at once.” The minister replied, “As my master commands.” But he then spirited the prince away to a cremation ground somewhere. The minister was skilled in reflecting on right and wrong; he said to the prince, “Prince, your father is furious at you for what you have done. He has sentenced you to death. But as the son of my sovereign, you are also my master. How can I kill you? I have served your family and will continue to serve you and your descendants. Go now and never let anyone hear another word about you.” With those words the minister released the prince. The prince hastened away, and traversing many a city he came at last to Pātaliputra. At that tim
e King Jayavarman reigned there. The prince was taken into the king’s service.

  ‘In the meantime, back in Kośalā, Suvarnadevā’s relatives discovered that she had been unfaithful to her husband, and they and everyone else in the city scorned her and reviled her for being unchaste. Her heart burned with a fire of longing for the absent prince, while her body was afflicted by the many discomforts of her pregnancy. She kept thinking, ‘Where is that prince? How could he have abandoned me?’ ‘Her friends told her, “On account of you the king condemned the prince to death, and the minister has carried out the sentence.” Because she was pregnant she did not follow him in death. One night she snuck out of her house, and as fate would have it, she joined a caravan bound for Pātaliputra. That lovely girl, suffering from the burden of her womb and unaccustomed to walking, went very slowly and soon fell behind the caravan. She lost her way and found herself in a deep forest filled with fruits and leaves and hundreds of different types of trees: tāla, hintāla, tamāla, kadamba, jambū and jambīra. Lost in that forest, she was unable to find her way out. Her terrible thirst clouded her thoughts and she was wracked by pangs of hunger. Her face was wan; she was weary from her journey. She was terrified at the roaring of the lions and her heart beat in terror at the sight of the tigers. Having gone astray in the dense jungle, she began to lament, “O Father! Why did you not save me, your most beloved daughter? O Mother, you too did not come to my rescue. O my beloved, it was for your sake that I gave up everything, my chastity, my family, my good name, my modesty, and my friends, as easily as one shakes off a blade of grass clinging to one’s clothes; as easily as one discards the dust after sweeping the house. And now you too ignore my plight!” As she lamented her fate, she dropped to the ground in a faint. In the meantime, the moon, lover of the night lilies, as if it was overcome by grief at the thought of her death, withdrew its rays and sank into the Western ocean.

  ‘Darkness spread everywhere, black as a herd of huge elephants, black as the string of mountain peaks of the Vindhya range. A cool wind revived her, as if moved to pity for her. There in that terrible forest, totally alone, with no one to help her, Suvarnadevā gave birth to twins, a son first and then a daughter.

  ‘At the very same moment, joy at the birth of a son and terror at having no place to go took hold of her mind; just as both bright light and the dark shadow of the earth’s surface can take possession of the sun’s disc at the time of an eclipse.

  ‘She began to lament:

  ‘“O my son! I have no one, no father, mother, husband, nor relatives. You are my refuge. You are my support. You are my guiding wisdom.

  ‘“A father takes care of a woman when she is a child, and a husband looks after her when she is in her youth; her son protects her in her old age. A woman is never without someone to care for her.”

  ‘In time, the sun reached the summit of Eastern Mountain, as if it wanted to protect her at least from the harm that evil creatures might do her.

  ‘The lord of light rose, red as if in anger at the darkness of night, which had committed the terrible sin of erasing colors, as wicked people erase the distinctions between the castes by their indiscriminate behavior.

  ‘As dawn broke in this way, she began to think, “What shall I do now? I cannot die; if I die there is no doubt that these two babies will also die. I have to take care of them.” And so she made her way to the outskirts of some village. She tied the signet ring that Prince Tosala had given her around the neck of the boy and a signet ring marked with her own name around the neck of the girl. She then bound the two children separately with a single piece of her upper garment. She left the two babies and went to clean herself in a fresh mountain spring at the foot of the Vindhya mountains. While she was gone, a tigress that had just given birth and was looking for something to feed her cubs was attracted by the smell of fresh blood and found the twins who were tied, one at each end of the cloth. The tigress dragged them both off, but unbeknownst to the tigress, as she carried them, the baby girl fell out of the cloth onto the ground. An emissary of King Jayavarman of Pātaliputra and his wife found the baby girl lying there. The emissary picked up the baby and gave it to his wife, who had no children of her own. Eventually the emissary and his wife took the girl back with them to Pātaliputra. They named her Vanadattā, “Gift of the Forest”.

  ‘The tigress did not get very far. She was slain by Śabaraśīla, a son of King Jayavarman, who found himself there on some errand. He thought she was a male as he mercilessly struck her with his javelin. Then, he saw the baby boy, his body tender and soft like a lotus fiber, his two feet like red lotuses, his eyes like fully opened blue lotus blossoms and his face like the full moon, Śabaraśīla was delighted. He gave the baby to his wife to raise as her own son and she accepted the baby as her own. The prince organized a celebration in honor of the birth of his son, and on the twelfth day he gave him the appropriate name, Vyāghradatta, “Gift of the Tiger”. Throughout the city everyone said that his wife had concealed her pregnancy but had now given birth to a son. Śabaraśīla and the child returned to Pātaliputra. There the child played with princes of the same age, but because his mind was always afflicted by delusion, everyone called him Mohadatta, “Delusion’s Gift”, in this case no doubt meaning the one who was delivered over to Delusion. And so Mohadatta grew up, maturing in years, in his mastery of the arts, and in his good qualities.

  ‘When Suvarnadevā got back from washing herself, she could not find the children and she fell into a swoon. Once more she was revived by the breeze. She cried and wailed for a long time, but eventually she calmed herself and went on. When she saw the tracks made by the tigress she was convinced that it must have eaten both her son and her daughter. She followed the tracks right to the door of the hut of some cowherd woman in a small village. The woman welcomed her warmly, as if she were her own daughter. She stayed there only a few days and then wandered from village to village until she eventually reached Pātaliputra. Through the workings of karma, she came to the very home of that emissary of King Jayavarman, who had found her daughter in the forest. The emissary’s wife hired her to look after her daughter. Suvarnadevā had no idea that the baby was in fact her own child, but she raised it lovingly, as if it were her own. In time the girl became a young lady in the prime of her youthful beauty, exceedingly lovely, and most clever.

  ‘It was spring, the season that brings great delight to the minds of everyone; the soft buzzing sounds of bees filled the air. On the thirteenth day of the month, the day sacred to Kāma, the God of Love, Vanadattā and her mother and friends went to the garden just outside the city to watch the festivities. Mohadatta saw Vanadattā wandering freely in the garden; she saw him as well. And when they saw each other, they fell in love at once. The two of them stood there for some time, just looking at each other, the tree of their affection watered by the glances that they exchanged. Suvarnadevā, realizing that Mohadatta had fallen madly in love with Vanadattā, said, “Daughter! You have been here a long time. Your father will be worried about you. It’s time to go home. If you are that eager to see the God of Love, my daughter, then we can come back some time after the festival is over, when the garden is empty, and you can look at the God of Love all you want.” With these words she escorted Vanadattā out of the garden.

  ‘Mohadatta thought to himself, “Surely she is in love with me, too.” He was also firmly convinced that Suvarnadevā’s words were meant as a secret message to him. In this frame of mind he left the garden. Vanadattā returned to her home in body only; her mind was with the young man she had just seen. Her body was possessed by Love as if by a strong demon. There, her body burning from the raging fires of the terrible separation from the object of her longing.

  Lying on a bed strewn with sprigs of Kankeli flowers, moaning oddly, afflicted by the terrible fever of love;

  Covered with lotus stalks and plantain leaves to cool her, all of her body smeared with wet sandal paste;

  Her lips cracking from the heat of the hot b
reaths that escaped them, having abandoned her practice of any of the arts, and indifferent to the pleasures of flowers or betel or adorning herself;

  Her face pale and wan like a withered lotus, like a moon beam in the full light of day, she was uncomfortable whether lying on her couch or sitting on the ground.

  ‘One day, after the festival to the God of Love was over, Prince Tosala saw Vanadattā when she was on her way to the garden, accompanied by her mother and some friends. Tosala had changed greatly in appearance from his stay in this land that was not his place of birth; he was also no longer in the prime of youth nor as strikingly handsome as he had once been; his complexion and his physique had altered. Thus it was that Suvarnadevā did not recognize him. He did not recognize her either, for it would never have occurred to him that she could be here in this distant land. Now Prince Tosala was smitten with Vanadattā. He thought to himself, “I have to marry this girl, by whatever means necessary, even if I have to fight for her or pay money to get her, no matter what I have to do. If only she would go to the garden. Let me follow her.” And off he went.